asterion,
He’s free to let his mind wander as he heads for the cliffs, Cirrus high above him like a glint of light in the blue sky. Asterion thinks he might know these pathways better than anything else in Novus (better, even, than his own heart); he has walked them near daily, in every season, beneath every shape of cloud or sun or moon. Even his heartbeat settles as soon as the sound of the waves reaches him, the endless shush like a mother’s whisper.
The bay stallion slows as the terrain gets rocky and uneven, the meadow’s grasses falling away to stubborn clumps of bushes, small and scattered oaks, and juts of granite stone soft and painted with moss and lichen. As he walks, Camillia somewhere nearby, he breathes deeply of the taste of the summer sea, salt and brine that might be pungent were it not for the cool breeze off the water.
“Just as it divides sea and city,” he says, and looks back over his shoulder at the castle just visible over the shoulder of a hill. He waits, then, until the mare of silver and black is standing beside him, and adds, “But I’m not sure if it means above…or below.” And the king steps forward, each dark hoof carefully placed, until he’s leaning over the cliffside, and the rock is plunging down, and narrow beaches band the shore in dark sand and gray stone.
king of dusk.
to: @camillia and any! and @
